


A Denial Of Epic Proportions

by SentimentalDefect



Category: British Actor RPF, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Pneumonia, Sickfic, benedict is sick, don't shoot me for adding an ofc, poor baby, she's not annoying i promise, sick on set
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-07 00:02:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1877469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SentimentalDefect/pseuds/SentimentalDefect
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Benedict is sick, the crew is consoling, and tea is consumed by all. Based loosely on BC's row with Pneumonia several years ago, though I profess that the plot itself is entirely fictitious and is in no way reflective of the real individuals portrayed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Denial Of Epic Proportions

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first in my RPF Sickfic thread, which will eventually expand to include both the SPN and Star Trek casts, as well as more Benedict Cumberbatch indulgences. Once again, this story is a work of FICTION! and is not intended to mean any disrespect to the actors, writers, or crew members depicted, nor does it reflect the real life actions or opinions of said individuals. 
> 
> I have tossed in an OFC for convenient story-writing purposes, and she serves ONLY as a vessel for which the reader can experience the story in an anonymous manner. Her relationship with Benedict is largely platonic, but we'll see how that develops as the chapters go on.... Reviews much appreciated, always love to hear your feedback!

She knows before he even opens his mouth that something’s not right. 

It’s week 6 of shooting- long, cold, rainy days out in the elements, with the icy spray of London soaking everyone’s clothes clear through by the end of the day, and the cast perpetually huddled around the outdoor heaters between takes. The weather alone is beginning to take its toll on cast and crew alike, as mornings grow darker and nights stretch on until daybreak, and everyone (herself included) is utterly spent. Ben has wound up getting the brunt of it though, largely the result of self-imposed line studying and character development research, and as a result, he’s gotten himself sick. 

The sick part is no secret- everyone had the cold at first, hell even she’d caught it for a few days, but within a week the rest of the cast had cleared up, and while the weather remained as miserable as ever, everyone else seemed fine. 

Everyone except Benedict. 

She watches him out of the corner of her eye as he makes his way over now, bundled in scarf and gloves and hat, cheeks blushingly pink against the stark paleness of his complexion. 

“Morning.” He sounds dreadful, and coughs roughly into an elbow. He’s trembling, despite the heavy layers, and when the coughing stops she can hear his teeth chatter. 

“Do you have anything for me today?” He quips, coughing again. 

His already mahogany voice is teetering on something darker than oak, and she winces sympathetically as the day’s shooting schedule unravels in her head. Two locations, nine scenes, four costume changes, and two of the nightmare monologues that Mark always apologizes for in advance, all and all panning out to be a good ol’ 14 hour work day in the rain and sleet. Interior shots were being reserved for Monday, as the weather was only supposed to get worse from here, so the plan was to knock out as many of the city shoots as possible this afternoon. 

Benedict interrupts her with a heady sneeze, directed expertly into a tissue that seems to materialize out of nowhere. Wordlessly, she hands over a brown paper bag, which Benedict takes, mild surprise evident on his face.

“Tylenol. Tissues. Cough drops.” She says by way of explanation. 

Looking at him you’d have thought she’d handed over a key to the city. 

“You’re the best, darling.”

She grins, “That’s what they tell me.” She sneaks in a wink, before frowning at the intrusion of another coughing fit. It’s sounding decidedly worse than it was a few days ago, and she wonders if she ought to say something about it. Clearly the breadth of her educational was in film, not in medicine, but even with her limited knowledge it is evident that the crackly quality of his coughs is something to worry about. She shuffles her Starbucks tray from one hand to the other, handing over his coffee order and frowning. He takes it gratefully, sipping at the hot liquid with relish, stopping only briefly to sniffle into his jacket. 

“Thanks.” He coughs again, more wetly this time, and she frowns. 

“You should get that checked out, Ben. That’s sounding worse than it did a few days ago.”

He waves her off, clearing his throat. “I’m fine. It’s just the damn cold.” He shudders. “Didn’t expect it would be this icy out here.” He sips at the coffee, gives her shoulder a squeeze. 

“Thank you.” 

“Any time. Take care of yourself though, will you?”

He forces something like a grin, though it turns out more like a grimace, before turning away into a flurry of dark hair and coattails as makeup whisks him off to the stylist trailer, and she tries to ignore the sinking feeling in her chest when the coughing doesn’t get any less frequent as the day progresses. 

“Let’s break for lunch, everyone!” Mark shouts over the monitor some four hours later, and the cast disperses off toward the food trucks, scattering in a blur of hungry scarves and hats. Glancing around, she is disappointed to see that the scarf of Mr. Holmes is nowhere to be found. 

“Hey Mark? Have you seen Ben?”

Mark glances up, frowns. “Not in an hour or so, I’m guessing he went back to his trailer. He said he wasn’t feeling well.”

Something sloshes in her stomach. If Benedict willingly volunteered admitting to being unwell to get off set, he must be feeling a lot worse than he’s been letting on. 

“Right,” She mutters, “Thanks.” 

Steven appears out of nowhere, plate of macaroni and some sort of vegetable hash clutched in one hand. 

“Go take Ben some food.” He nods toward the kraft services behind them, chewing seriously. “I think our Sherlock is getting a little too into his character- Haven’t seen him eat a proper meal in days.”

Nodding, she pops over to the food tables, tightening her coat against the incessantly nasty wind nipping at her exposed neck. After loading up a plate with some soup and a sandwich (chicken, no sprouts, extra avocado- Ben’s favorite) she makes her way over to the actor’s trailers in search of Benedict. 

She finds the right one with little effort, knocks twice on the door before letting herself in and closing the door behind her. A wave of heat assaults her. The trailer is small, and the generously sized heating unit in the corner is cranked full blast. A glowing “85” degrees shines back at her in the semi-darkness of the trailer. Shucking her coat, she places the plate of food on a nearby table, moving to the more pressing problem at hand as to finding Benedict. 

“Ben?”

After her eyes have attuned to the dark he isn’t hard to spot, curled up in a ball on the sofa, still in costume and dead asleep. 

She sits down next to him, rubbing a path up and down his calves as he stirs from sleep. 

“Hey Sherlock, I brought you some food.” 

Bleary eyes glance up. He looks awful, worse than this morning, eyes bloodshot and cheeks painfully flushed, though weather from the heat of the room or a brewing fever she’s not entirely sure. 

“What’r you doing here?” He croaks, wincing as the words grind down his throat. 

“The boys wanted me to check up on you, Mark said you weren’t feeling too good.” 

Even with the dim lighting, she watches as Ben’s cheeks burn an ever brighter shade of pink. 

“ ‘m okay.. jus’ tired from all the… the… “ He trails off, nose twitching, before violently sneezing twice into the folds of the sofa. The sneezing melts into coughing, deep and bronchial, and he drags himself upright into sitting position, choking for air. 

“Whoah… hey it’s okay… it’s okay…” She soothes circles over his back, alarmed as the coughing goes on for several minutes. She watches his spine spasm with each cough, tiny vertebrae peaking through the taught fabric of his button-down, lungs gasping between barks. Finally it stops, and she moves her hand up to his forehead.

“You’re burning up.”

Ben just sort of shrugs, still panting from the coughing and looking throughly miserable. “ s’ just a little fever.” He croaks. “They need me through the rest of the week… we’ve got so much to do.” He shivers, and she brushes a few strands of hair off his ashy face. The strands come away damp to the touch, and upon further inspection, she discovers his shirt is positively soaking in fever sweat. 

“Jesus, Ben. How long have you been like this?”

He shrugs, clearly embarrassed for some reason. A sudden shiver makes him shudder, running his hands across his arms to generate heat. 

“ s’ freezing in here.”

“Actually, it’s a sauna compared to outside. You feel pretty warm to me, though. How long have you had the fever?”

Another shiver, along with a sidewards glance that doesn’t mean her gaze.

“Little over a week, maybe?”

A knock on the door startles them both, as the unmistakable voice of Sue Vertue cracks through the air:  
“Ten minutes, everyone!” Benedict pushes away her hands and begins heaving himself up to a sitting position. He doesn’t get more than a few steps before swaying dangerously, and she catches his elbow to keep the pair of them from toppling over. 

“Easy there.” 

The fever is just pouring off him by now, and she runs a thumb across his cheek, eliciting a little sounds that comes frighteningly close to a whimper. Her insides sort of turn to mush as the sight of him, all flushed and shivery and miserable, stomach doing a weird little flop as she lets her whole hand caress the length of his cheek. Green-blue eyes meet her own, and she smiles softly at the pained look that meets her. 

“Why don’t you change into something else.”

He opens his mouth, protest already on his lips. “It’s alright, really, I just needed a little sleep to—“ More coughing interrupts his feeble attempts at explanation, and she takes this opportunity to steer him back to the couch. There’s a fleece blanket tossed over a nearby chair, which she promptly snags and tucks around the actor’s shaking form. Without batting an eye she also hands over a box of tissues, waiting patiently as Ben gurgles into a handful. 

“I’b sorry.” He murmurs finally, head bowed deep in apology. “I diddit bean for you to see be all sdotty today.” 

She smiles. “It’s alright.”

He groans, blowing loudly into another wad of kleenex and making an unsatisfied snorting sound as the pain in his sinuses intensifies. “Cadt believe I’b doing this to the whold cast.” He sneezes messily, blushing an almost painful fuchsia as he tries to scrub his face. “God, I’b so sorry you had to see dis. I’b disgusting rid dow.”

“As if.” He gives his shoulder a playful squeeze, noticing how he melts into her touch as she applies pressure to a particularly sore muscle. “You couldn’t be disgusting if you tried. But you sound awful, and you shouldn’t be on set like this.” She kisses his forehead softly, and without further embellishment she moves toward the door, swiftly pressing open the tiny panel and stepping into the frosty air. 

“Doh, doh, dod’t bother Mark—“ Benedict manages to croak out, but she’s already gone. He sighs, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, trying to find the energy to get up and go after her. Somehow that seems unlikely. He’d never admit it in front of the crew, but he feels awful, achy and chilled and exhausted in a way that makes all his bones hurt at the same time. He ventures a sniffle, snaking a long finger under his painfully chapped nose and groaning a little at the moisture that is drawn back. He lets himself collapse against the sofa, tucking the blanket closer around himself. 

He lets his eyes flutter closed, reveling in the comfort of some peace and quiet. Aside from the hum of the heater, everything is silent, and he yawns widely at the prospect of a little rest. 

“Just a couple minutes.” Benedict murmurs to no one in particular. “Just a couple minutes.” 

The quiet of the trailer consumes him, and before he knows it, the Great Sherlock Holmes has fallen asleep.


End file.
